


all there is to a fire

by endquestionmark



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya, angry, is about as subtle as a wall to the face; Napoleon knows this because he’s seen Illya angry, and he’s taken a wall to the face, two incidents which occurred in very quick succession, and has been forever unable to separate them since. Illya focused is something else entirely. Rain, and eight inches of steel, and the sound that it had made coming out of the sheath: in retrospect, Napoleon had been moderately concussed at the time, most likely, but he deals in illusions, in the setting of a scene, and the blocking had stuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all there is to a fire

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch) for positing the "what if they have to beat each other up undercover for a mission" scenario so vividly and often that I had to write this to exorcise it from my subconscious. Accordingly: violence and its aftermath.

Illya, angry, is about as subtle as a wall to the face; Napoleon knows this because he’s seen Illya angry, and he’s taken a wall to the face, two incidents which occurred in very quick succession, and has been forever unable to separate them since. Illya focused is something else entirely. Rain, and eight inches of steel, and the sound that it had made coming out of the sheath: in retrospect, Napoleon had been moderately concussed at the time, most likely, but he deals in illusions, in the setting of a scene, and the blocking had stuck. All that unfocused fire, sparking off in every direction, suddenly narrowed down the a single point, and consuming all the air around it; Napoleon had been unable to look away, and hadn’t wanted to, and hadn’t been able to forget, afterwards.

The room that they are in is small, and meant for storing delicate work; the walls are plain, and there is no furniture except the chair to which Napoleon is tied, and the door has no handle on the inside. It is the sort of room that is not meant to let anything in or anything out — sunlight, humidity, and, more relevantly, though presumably not intentionally, noise — and the door is closed, and Napoleon watches Illya, unavoidable given the size of the space, by the door, and thinks about flames in confined spaces.

The third man in the room is not particularly relevant, if Napoleon is being honest with himself; he always finds that acknowledging his audience ruins the show. The man is wearing a dressing gown, and his hands are clean and soft, and he looks as if he’s been called into a sudden meeting, an obligation which he must fulfill but in which he has no particular investment. The man owns art. The man owns secrets. They are here to steal the one under the pretext of the other. Napoleon is more used to palming secrets on the way out, an afterthought; a pair of diamond earrings in exchange for hospitality, perhaps, or the calling card of a guest who is less than discreet about her recent inheritance, or simply a souvenir: a lighter with particularly fine etching, perhaps. He’s adaptable, though, and if what it takes to win the man’s trust is a demonstration of loyalties — Illya’s; Illya is far more suited to playing the guard dog than Napoleon, who prefers to walk without the click of claws — then Napoleon will provide. It had hurt his pride, a little, to let the alarms go off as he lifted the canvas from the wall; it had been an amateurish mistake, and one that he considered beneath him, but: click.

“Who do you work for,” the man says. He’s tired, and resents being woken up for this; Napoleon can use that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Napoleon says.

“It takes an expert to understand the value of that piece,” the man says, “and an expert you are not.”

“I know art!” Napoleon says, only half-fabricated affront.

“You may know art, but you don’t know alarms,” the man says, and jerks his head at Illya. “Hit him,” he says, almost exasperated, and Napoleon has a half-second to brace, but it doesn’t make much difference. Illya backhands him, and for a moment, all Napoleon feels of it is the snap, and tips to the side. He barely catches himself before the chair tips, and then his face begins to sting; he gasps, and when Illya raises his hand again, Napoleon flinches, but the man holds up a hand.

“Who do you work for,” he says, again.

“I don’t know,” Napoleon says, a little rougher, “what you’re talking about, I don’t work for anyone—”

This time, it hurts as soon as Illya’s palm cracks across his face; call it awareness, or the way that he can already feel his face swelling, but it doesn’t matter. Napoleon grunts.

“I’ll save you the trouble,” he says. “I don’t work for anyone.”

This time, Napoleon doesn’t bother to catch himself when the chair tips; it goes over, a clatter of metal that rattles through him, and Illya kicks him, unceremoniously, in the ribs. He doesn’t pull back at the last minute, and there’s none of his usual distractedness to it. Napoleon coughs, and struggles for breath, and thinks that this isn’t a means to an end, but an end in and of itself — a point, a focus — and the air feels thin, even through the pain. “He’ll kill you, you know,” the man says. “If I give the word, you’ll just disappear.”

Napoleon spits. He can taste copper from the place where he bit his cheek, falling; he holds the metallic charge of it in his mouth, and says: “I don’t work for anyone.”

“Again,” the man says, and doesn’t even bother to watch when Illya kicks Napoleon again, efficient and uncomplicated, a little lower this time. Napoleon tries to curl around Illya’s foot to absorb the impact, and fails; he retches, and only succeeds in spitting more blood, and indulges himself by struggling against the rough loops keeping his wrists fastened to the chair’s arms, and then a little show of resignation that should go a long way towards getting this over with. “Who do you work for?”

“Nobody,” Napoleon says, and says, “No, don’t, don’t—”

“Pick him up,” the man says, and Illya tips the chair back upright. Napoleon forces himself to straighten up, which is not particularly joyful; nothing broken, he thinks, at least that he can feel just yet, but his ribs are feeling considerably worse for wear. “Again—”

“Nobody,” Napoleon gasps, “I told you, I don’t work for anybody, I just grabbed the first thing I saw that I could carry — I don’t work for anybody, nobody — please don’t,” he says, and the man sighs.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” he says, impersonal and disinterested. “But you do understand that this is unacceptable.”

“Please, I won’t say anything,” Napoleon says. “You’ll never see me again.”

“I don’t care if I see you again,” the man says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hold still.”

 _I don’t see what else I can do_ , Napoleon doesn’t say, because, yes, he could get loose, if he wanted, but the scared amateur thief could not, and so the possibility doesn’t even occur to him.

“Fingers, I think,” the man says, and Napoleon freezes. “Left or right? Left, I suppose. A man still has to shave, and after all, I’m not inhuman. Give him your hand.”

Napoleon does, or at least — he doesn’t tip the chair over trying to get away, or chafe his wrists raw trying to pull back — holds still while Illya slips a hand under his, twists off his signet. All that destructive force, calluses and old scars, under his hand, and Napoleon holds his breath, thinks about the whisper of metal over leather, and meets Illya’s eyes. For a moment, he lets panic overwhelm him, thinks that he should struggle and claw and snarl; anything but his hands, and the wide-open look in Illya’s eyes, an understanding of the magnitude of this. Last time he broke a finger, Napoleon had miscalculated a climb, and nearly pulled a finger off on the way down the trellis; this time, he knows the parameters, but the drop is still there, the nagging temptation to let go and close his eyes and trust that he’ll land on his feet.

Napoleon doesn’t close his eyes, but he doesn’t watch, either, and for the space of a breath he thinks that it’ll be all right, and they’ll find some other way; Illya is so careful, and so gentle, with Napoleon’s hand, and it’ll be all right. He can trust this. Napoleon exhales, relieved for all that he’s still strung taut, holds carefully still and thinks: _thank God_.

When Illya snaps his little finger back, it breaks close to the knuckle with a sound that Napoleon hasn’t forgotten from the last time, and won’t be forgetting this time either. There’s a softness to it that speaks of bruising and swelling and, there, the agony of ligaments. Napoleon keens through his teeth, and discards the lie. This is the only way. It will still be all right.

“One more,” the man says, and Napoleon shouts with pain, a more substantial crack of bone this time, and the pulse in his hand is hammering, loud enough to drown out the faint echo. His hand looks like a toy, like some sort of half-formed model, swelling and darkening already, not flesh and blood but a clumsy left-handed sketch. “That’s enough,” he says, and knocks on the door; on the other side, someone opens it. “Take him out through the garden, please, and then you can go, I think.”

Illya nods, and undoes the knots at Napoleon’s wrists and ankles carelessly enough to leave red marks when he pulls at the rope. “Up,” he says, the first thing he’s said all night, and takes Napoleon by the elbow.

Outside, the night is hazy, summer heat hanging low over the hills, even though the sun’s been down for hours now. “Are you—“ Illya starts, and Napoleon holds up a hand, wincing when the movement pulls at his ribs.

“Save it,” he says, and lets Illya support him once they’ve rounded the corner, throws an arm around his neck and prefers the steady ache of bruising to the unsteadiness of walking on his own. “Fingers? Really? Not that I don’t understand, but honestly.”

“Bad taste,” Illya says. “Me, I would break your nose.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Napoleon says, drily. “I like my nose, thank you.”

“And I like your hands,” Illya says, and shrugs. “I’ll live.”

They’re staying in a nameless hotel near the center of town — touristy, unremarkable, only prone to ostentation in the lobby — and Napoleon settles onto the sofa with absolutely no intention of ever moving again. Even settling into the cushions hurts. There’s none of the pinching pain that typically accompanies broken ribs, so he cradles his hand to his chest and puts his feet up on the far armrest and aches quietly.

“Let me see,” Illya says, guard’s uniform jacket folded over his arm and his sleeves pushed up. He has one hand behind his back. “Your hand.”

“It’ll heal,” Napoleon says. “And anyway, I insist on being bought a drink first.”

Illya brings his hand out from behind his back. There is a glass in it, full of something that is clear and viscous and speaks of imminent relief and less imminent regret. “Cheap date,” he says.

“You should have led with that,” Napoleon says, and heaves himself upright, groaning. “Sure you don’t just want the excuse to snap a few more fingers?”

“You would know,” Illya says, and hands him the glass; it isn’t particularly good vodka, but the chemical flatness of it washes away the taste of old blood. “Let me see.”

Napoleon gives Illya his hand, and, for a moment, has to fight down panic again. Illya presses gently at his knuckles, with as much care as he’d shown just before — and again, the memory of the sound of a wet snap — and holds Napoleon’s fingers on his palm, hand open. “I can set them myself,” Napoleon says.

“Or you can drink and I will set them for you,” Illya says.

“I knew you just wanted the excuse,” Napoleon says, and takes another sip; he’s barely swallowed, a little less prone to startling, when Illya pulls — sharp and unspeakably painful — and straightens Napoleon’s little finger, a sensation sickening in its intensity. “ _Fuck_ ,” Napoleon says, somewhat after the fact, and wants to peel off his skin so that he will never have to feel something like that again. “A little warning would be nice.”

“Want to do the other one?” Illya says, flat humor in the way he raises his eyebrows.

“I won’t deprive you of the pleasure,” Napoleon says, and takes another swallow of vodka. “In your own time.”

It’s worse when he knows it’s coming. Napoleon feels the wrongness of it like a blow to his chest, the pull of torn tissue and the faint grinding of bone all coalesced into pain that he can feel all the way up his arm. He wants to snatch his hand back when Illya’s done, tugs his arm away but, in the end, holds still so that Illya can bandage his fingers, held straight.

“Better?” Illya says, tying off the bandage, and looks up at Napoleon. Napoleon meets his eyes, and thinks that he must look wary and half-feral, for Illya to look at him like that, eyes wide and earnest, nothing concealed.

“Let me finish this, and I’ll let you know,” Napoleon says, and knocks the rest of the vodka back, lets it burn through him. He blinks hard and sets the glass down. “Could be worse,” he concedes, and shifts, wincing. “I feel like a walking bruise.”

Illya stands and taps two fingers against Napoleon’s cheek. “Ice,” he says, “would help.”

“That _hurt_ ,” Napoleon says. He wraps his hand around Illya’s wrist. “Careful with that.”

“And your ribs,” Illya says. “Ice or cold water.”

“We’ll be here all night if you’re making a list,” Napoleon says. “I can think of better things to do.”

“We are here all night anyway,” Illya says.

“So let’s make a different list,” Napoleon says. “This doesn’t hurt,” he says, and presses a kiss to Illya’s knuckles.

“I bruised them on your face,” Illya says. Napoleon gives him a look.

“Tragic,” he says. “Should I stop?” Illya shrugs and puts on an expression of indifference. “Right,” Napoleon says, and turns Illya’s hand over to kiss his wrist, the barest brush of skin. “That doesn’t hurt either.”

“Do you plan to take all night,” Illya says, and, when Napoleon mimics his shrug, sighs in exasperation. “What about this?” Illya says, and bends, presses his lips to the corner of Napoleon’s mouth.

“I’ll let you know if it hurts,” Napoleon says, and when Illya kisses the very edge of the bruise forming on his cheekbone, he winces. “That,” he says, “hurt.”

 _Oops_ , Illya does not say, but conveys very clearly nonetheless; he traces Napoleon’s throat with the pad of his thumb, and then unbuttons his shirt and barely brushes his fingers along the green-purple already darkening there. “That hurts,” Napoleon says.

“Should I stop?” Illya says.

“I’ll let you know,” Napoleon says, and lets Illya follow the delicate skin under Napoleon’s breastbone, the arch of his ribs, the faint insistent ache of bruising, until he doesn’t know what to pay attention to anymore — Illya’s hands on his waist or the way that the pain is making him drift — and relaxes into both. “Stop looming and come down here,” Napoleon says, and tugs at Illya’s shoulders until he does.

“Be careful,” Illya says.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Napoleon says, and when Illya settles over him, sighs happily.

“Incredible,” Illya says, a little too sardonic for Napoleon’s liking, but he lets Napoleon push up his shirt and follow the line of his hip. The sting of his words translates into, accordingly, teeth in Napoleon’s lip, and a certain brusqueness to the way he undoes Napoleon’s trousers, so Napoleon doesn’t mind. Illya settles himself on his knees between Napoleon’s legs and treats him with a lack of tenderness which Napoleon finds unutterably appealing. Illya doesn’t tease, particularly, but licks over the head of Napoleon’s cock messily, sucks him off inelegantly and efficiently and until Napoleon is gasping, half in pleasure and half in pain from his bruised ribs and the way he wants to tangle his hands in Illya’s hair, and the effort it takes to hold himself still instead.

“No, come on,” Napoleon gasps, when Illya pulls off, and Illya wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck.” Illya settles over Napoleon again, though, and wraps one big hand around him, and uses the other to hold his hips back, so that Napoleon can’t rock up but simply has to wait. He holds still and can’t ignore the heat in his cheeks — pleasure and pain, again — and the hammering of his heart, and he presses his face into Illya’s shoulder when he comes, gasps and, when he comes back to himself, bruises and all, almost welcomes it for a moment.

“What about that?” Illya says, and Napoleon glares at him as best he can.

“Touching,” he says, and sets his bandaged hand on Illya’s shoulder and pushes him back until Napoleon is kneeling over him. “Try not to break me, will you,” Napoleon says, and licks his palm, puts on a show of being obnoxiously thorough until Illya looks more exasperated than interested, and then jerks him off as agonizingly slowly as he can, though it hurts to balance using broken ribs and fingers. Illya swears, quietly, and then goes quiet, and Napoleon slows down until Illya curls a hand around his waist, fingers pressing a warning into his ribs. “Why didn’t you say something?” Napoleon says, utterly insincere, and stops teasing, and picks up the pace until Illya forgets to be gentle, and the ache in his ribs is almost as good as the way that Illya goes still when he comes, except for the rise and fall of his chest, and the tightness of his grip just before he lets go.

“Did I say you could do that?” Napoleon says.

“Did it hurt?” Illya says.

“That wasn’t the question,” Napoleon says, but drops the subject in favor of wiping his hand on Illya’s shirt to extreme silent disapproval and, gently, feeling at the swelling of his cheekbone instead. Ice, definitely, and another drink, and he could really use some sleep, though there isn’t much left to the night.

“That was not an answer either,” Illya says.

“There you are, then,” Napoleon says. “We’re even.”

“Not how it works,” Illya says. “That is con sense.”

“Only if you’re going to think about it like that,” Napoleon says, smug. “Works for me.”

“Thief,” Illya says, far too fondly.

“It isn’t a lie if you know it,” Napoleon says.

“Not how lies work either,” Illya says.

“Isn’t it? Here’s another one, then,” Napoleon says, and lifts Illya’s hand to his bruised cheek, leans into the way that Illya cups his face. “Careful.”

They aren’t.

 


End file.
